


Liminal

by Sylviel (Ahziel)



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone Is Alive (For Now), Gen, Other, The glory days of Hallownest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahziel/pseuds/Sylviel
Summary: In pursuit of their elder sibling and the siren call ofoutside-air-life-color-growth-voice,and, even further beyond, a soft song of shining malice, the Knight escapes the Abyss much earlier.The consequences of this are enormous.
Relationships: The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Knight, The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Pale King, The Knight & The Pale King (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 273





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sylvanWhispers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvanWhispers/gifts).



> I haven't even finished beating this game yet but I've been deep in the wiki pages for about two weeks now. I was greatly hungering for this type of story and could not find one that checked all the boxes, so, here I am.
> 
> Dedicated to Sylvanwhispers, who first introduced me to the game and has metaphorically held my hand through the Mantis Lords and the Enraged Guardian and pretty much every other boss in the game.
> 
> As a note: lore for this story will be primarily drawn from the cohesive fan-compilation studies & research, available here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1EnOxWdbm556kNUOGrfT9_OMnBrKwahsFpv-LWhleyas/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> While I will strive to keep this story as lore-friendly as I can, I do retain artistic license and it is highly likely I may tweak, embellish, or otherwise alter details in order to create a more complete & fleshed-out world.

At the bottom of the world, there was no understanding of the difference between darkness and light. 

Furthermore, there was no formal understanding of the _world_ in which they occupied the bottom of—except in only the vaguest sense that the ceiling far above acted in some capacity as a wall or border. There was, even, scarcely an understanding of a sense of ‘they.’ After all, they were made up of many individual _they’s_ , collectively wading through what they knew to be a sea of void and shambling over dark outcroppings of shale and obsidian. 

Their world, as cavernous and dark and quiet as it was, was realized mostly through an impression of space and matter. It was not a peaceful existence; peace required an understanding of chaos, of harder times, and they— _sea-void-shadow-caverns—_ were all the existence they knew. And so time, though they had little understanding of the concept, flowed onward in this quiet and unnoticed manner.

Until something almost imperceptible changed.

There was a darker brand within the sea of them. Their resonance hummed more strongly, their void-shaped limbs mounted obstacles more easily, and their white shell was almost always upturned in the direction of their world's looming ceiling, where jutting rock ledges faded into indiscernible gloom and shadow. This was one of the _them_ who had climbed—climbed and fallen when the world had briefly shaken itself and boiled the black sea and been constrained by a greater force to the finite cavern in which they now wandered.

There had been a number of void brands who attempted the climb, though only two had made it so high. One of the brands who climbed had not returned following that event. They could not feel them, either, though they did not dwell on this much. Concern was not encoded in their nature.

But the dark brand, the one who had climbed so high and fallen, behaved differently thereafter. Back and forth this brand traversed the abyssal depths, slipping with nimble grace past the others, their siblings, who were content to wander without destination. Every shadowed nook and cranny was inspected, every loose stone overturned. A sense of unknown purpose drove them in a way few of the others were driven, and none to this degree.

Sometimes the little brand would pause in their toil and look upwards to the distant ledge from which they had fallen. Then they would return to their inspection.

In the end, the little brand’s focused efforts were rewarded. They had uncovered a weakness within the world, in a pile of debris concealing cracks in the wall where falling rocks had ricocheted from. At that spot, the dark brand toiled tirelessly, pulling fistfuls of gravel and rock from the crevices without rest or loss of interest.

While the darker brand worked, siblings began to dwindle. Eventually, through some inner flaw, some slowed and slowed until they laid themselves down and only shades rose up from their unmoving shell. Some siblings were crushed by boulders that fell without warning from the sky and emerged from the broken remains in a new form of similar-shaped void. Pieces of white shell began to accumulate on the floor. There were many _they’s_ to shatter, after all. Soon there were more floating shades than siblings.

Through it all, the darker brand toiled—until, at last, their efforts produced a gap of a serviceable size in the wall. The darker brand crawled into the tight gap, beckoned forward by a call of _outside-air-life-color-growth-voice,_ and, faint and even further beyond, a soft and shining song of growing malice.

They did not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who left comments!

Ahead of them, the Song crooned, faint and gossamer thin. It spoke of light (though they did not know what this meant) and dreams (another mystery), of together-ness and radiant unity. They were simultaneously drawn to it and repulsed, just as they had been when they’d first heard a snatch of its tune while falling from the ledge. 

None of their siblings seemed to have heard it. Their minds were similar enough to be sensed by one another, and they could communicate images and indistinct concepts well enough — _dark-birth-sibling-dark-egg-where-egg,_ for example. But they were not in such unity that each traversed their companions’ minds as easily as their own. And so when the brand had first communicated the snatch of Song they’d heard during their plummet, none had seemed to notice, or even care. Their passivity could not be broken. 

But now that this brand had heard it, the Song could not be forgotten. It required careful focus and concentration to hear even the faintest of notes, but it was real. It existed.

Everything about the Song was discordant, jarring, so wrong that just the experience of it alone taught them the difference between _comfort_ and _not-comfort._

They were compelled to smother it. 

Thus, the hunt for a way out of their birthplace, and the subsequent discovery of the weakness in the wall that could be scraped until it revealed a flaw in the stone, a crevice that split through the rock and formed a natural passageway.

Crawling through the tunnel led to one of the shadow’s first discoveries about the form that was their own, and how it interacted with the world around it: tactile sensation.

They had _felt_ before, of course. When their legs, short as they were, carried them over the dark floor of the cavern in which they had been born. When pieces of shell crunched and cracked underneath their weight. When they’d dug out the loose grit and rock from the crevice with their own hands.

But now, bent over on all fours in order to crawl forward unimpeded by the tight fit, they felt their horns scrape against the ceiling of the passageway. Their prior experiences had taught them precious little about touch, but what little they knew was just enough to deem the scrape of their horns against the rock _unpleasant_. It simply couldn’t be helped. The tunnel was a tight fit that demanded the contortion of their body in this unnatural crawling way, and their horns were too tall to avoid contact completely. In the end, they decided it was at least less uncomfortable than the Song they had heard and so decided all at once to set the feeling aside. 

As they crawled, they became aware of another thing, something they had never even noticed until it began to change. The resonant silence of their birth chamber, the humming sea of void that flowed through their siblings, had begun to dim. It continued to dim as the distance between the Knight and the birth chamber increased. They hadn’t even known such a resonance existed until it was absent. Then it was a different sort of quiet, only interrupted by the soft noises of limbs dragging over rock.

This did not kindle a sense of loss within them. Instead, it was akin to a tributary splitting off from a pool, in the same way the sea of Void lapped at its gray shore and left behind little tendrils of liquid shadow when it withdrew. They themselves felt clearer, more distinct, as the sonorous nothing-ness of their birth chamber faded behind them into obscurity.

Time passed. They did not mark its passing. Two limbs placed alternately in front of the others as they crawled, always pulling them forward in pursuit of Something they knew nothing about except their intense dislike for it, following any twists or turns in the natural passageway without complaint or weariness. 

Gradually, the passageway changed, tilting upwards at a slight incline that steepened dramatically. The passageway itself increased in height but continued to narrow in width until they were forced to stand upright again on two legs and edge through sideways. At last, their outstretched arm met a wall. An experimental push revealed it to be not a solid wall, but a pile of loose boulders much like the kind that had hidden the crevice’s entrance in their birthplace. Another push precipitated a slide of rock. Gaps appeared in the mound of stone and permitted pinpricks of light to pass through. One last push and the precarious heap crumbled in a landslide. Delicately, they climbed over the shifting pile, leaping at some parts to clear the height of a few boulders all jumbled up together. At the peak of the mound they paused and took in their new surroundings.

It was not like their birthplace at all.

They saw whisper-thin and lustrous white strands everywhere (webs, they knew), draped over chamber walls and stalagmites in thin sheets that swayed on unseen currents. Everywhere around them, a strange kind of noise pulsed. Living things squirmed their way through secret tunnels of their own making. Grating clicks, tapping mandibles and sibilant hisses reverberated throughout the area—from the walls, the ceiling, even the very floor. For a moment, they stood there and listened to this new noise. It was not the Song they had once heard, and so after a short introspection, it was summarily accepted and dismissed as just a facet of this new place. But (and here they learned what it meant to be frustrated) the susurrus of this strange environment drowned out all other noise. Even when they strained with all their focus, they could not hear that despised Song.

In search of a quieter place, they picked their way down the pile of stone and slipped through another passageway at the far end of this new chamber.

* * *

For an amount of time that seemed to stretch on endlessly, they flitted like a shadow through this loud and maze-like world. New discoveries awaited them in every chamber they entered.

The interlocking tunnels of this place seemed to have been carved without an overarching sense of purpose. They doubled back on themselves or led to dead ends as often, if not more so, than they led forward into a new area. At times, the floor disappeared and left behind only a writhing and chittering sea. Here, they learned the next escalation of physical sensation—pain—after one of the squirming bodies that made up the living carpet leapt up and bit their curious hand. After that, they learned to be wary, to expect pain and therefore behave with caution so as to avoid it. 

Without the sound of the hated Song to lure them, they resolved instead to gain in altitude. Perhaps a region far above this one would be quieter and they would be able to pick up its searing chorus once again.

Slipping through narrow passageways whenever possible and other secret gaps that bigger creatures would not be able to pursue them through, they made their way upwards.

* * *

At some point, the upwards-sloping tunnel simply stopped.

They slid around a protruding rock and the walls and ceiling fell away from them on all sides. After enduring the cramped confines of the passageways for so long, it was like expecting to place your foot on a stair and falling through empty air instead. They felt a funny lurch in the pit of their being. Where had the ceiling gone? The walls? Had they entered a chamber so cavernous its borders could not be seen?

They were used to stale air that had long sat stagnant and grown foul. But here, fresh air flowed over their body, bringing with it the scents of a thousand new things. Soil and the smell of living things that grew from soil. They took a few experimental steps forward. The ground was soft and loamy beneath their feet, yielding in a way stone did not. Was it possible? Was this above the surface of the world? They knew of the concept, but were not sure how. How long they must have walked to reach this place! 

They turned a circle. Behind them, jagged grey mountain peaks stabbed into the sky. A great bridge led out of the mountains high above and zigzagged down to the ground in a pattern of slants and parallel sections supported by enormous pillars. The foot of the bridge ended in a well-kept cobblestone road. This road passed in front of them and fed into the expansive valley below them to their right. They peered closer. Glowing lights, too many to count, dotted the dark valley, just barely illuminating the shape of many buildings. It was civilization. A town?

Maybe it would be quiet there.

They set out towards this new destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"There's an old pass in the cliffs that once allowed easy access. The bridge up to it has long since crumbled away, and even without it, a huge door bars entry."_ -Elderbug
> 
> The two regions in this chapter are Deepnest and Dirtmouth. In-game, there is no direct passageway connecting to the surface from Deepnest, but realistically, a vast cave system would have vents or fissues leading to the surface of the earth (and I didn't want to spend 10k describing the Knight's path from the Abyss). Knight managed to avoid nearly all of Deepnest's residents until they found the shaft that led to the surface.  
>    
> Since this story takes place at a much, much earlier time, Dirtmouth is not the lonely, mostly-abandoned village as it appears in the game. Hallownest is still going strong (despite creeping signs of Infection) which means Dirtmouth is a thriving trade hub and border town for those traveling to and from the kingdom.


	3. Chapter 3

Sounds above the crust of the earth traveled differently than they did below it.

Deep below the world, noises echoed off rock wall and floor, reverberating in endless waves until they sank silent into the stone. During their trek upwards they had learned to use this feature to sense the whereabouts of other entities based on the vibrations that passed through their feet, and thus managed to avoid them. That world made sense. It was contained, finite, enclosed. But standing here and looking up into a dizzying and boundless sky that stretched away from them as far as they could see, their first thought was, _Vast_.

They thought they’d known the meaning of the word—after all, hadn’t they themselves crawled out of their egg into the embrace of supreme nothingness? And yet, vastness borne of _nothing_ was as opposite as could be from vastness borne of _something_.

The well-maintained cobblestones beneath their feet had been manufactured according to some planned design, as functional as they were beautiful. Upon them their footfalls scarcely made any noise at all, and the smooth surface quickly carried them down into the border of the town proper. It seemed to be an open settlement, judging by the packed entanglement of buildings that continued on without running up against the hemming presence of a wall. Numerous chimneys poked into the sky and belched puffs of grey smoke that drifted in the cool breeze. The windows of the homes were cheerfully lit from within, and occasional shadows leaning in front of the light hinted at the shapes and sizes of their inhabitants.

A silver and black sign planted in the ground announced the settlement as Dirtmouth. A smaller signboard beside it pointed in various directions to different parts of the town. RESIDENTIAL, read the top center-pointing one, followed by SHOPPING DISTRICT, pointing left, then PALE HOUSE, to the right.

They looked away from their inspection of the sign and saw a number of bugs, in a range of sizes with a variance of limbs, walking back and forth along the main road, ducking into or exiting from buildings, calling to one another with raucous cheer or clustering in groups to converse. How oddly unique their forms were! They had never known such variety. All of their siblings’ shells had differed in slight ways, true, but this was something distinct. Were these bugs all siblings of each other? Was that possible?

More importantly—would any of them know how to find the source of that dazzling Song?

The silver architecture of the town began to close around them as they trudged away from the sign. Everywhere, they were surrounded by bustling movement, sounds, _life_. They did not know what it was to feel overwhelmed, but they were cognizant of the feeling of hyper-alertness that gripped them. The enemy’s Song could come from anywhere. If it did attack, they weren’t sure how they would fight it. Only that they must—and must succeed, at that.

A plump and tall bug walked backwards into their path. They halted, peering upwards and patiently waiting for them to move away. The bug stood there with her back to them, apparently engaged in conversation with a figure they could not see.

“I tell you, Sly, you’d be hard-pressed to find a market with greater choice than our Silver Square!” the bug said, her voice warbling and arch. Her cloak was dyed a dark blue and richly adorned with glittering stones and threads. “If it’s prime real estate you’re after for opening up a shop, there’s no finer options available than here in Dirtmouth. We might not be as wealthy as the City of Tears, true, but our access above-ground gives us first trade with any foreigners taking the King’s Pass. And I’m sure the town elders would be honored to have a knight as renowned as yourself become a valued part of our community!”

 _“Nailsage,_ not knight,” a high-pitched voice clarified. Another backwards step from the bug blocking their way revealed a little fly who stood even shorter than they themselves did. His diminutive stature was even further highlighted by the enormous nail strapped to his back. The fly snorted. “Not that the distinction will soon matter to me, I suppose.” The fly turned and looked upwards into the vacant building the twosome had just departed. “Was this the last of the shops available for purchase?”

“Nothing caught your eye, yet?” asked the big bug. “Fortunately, I have a few more over by Aphid Alley—” she turned to lead her smaller companion into the street and paused just in time to avoid a collision. “Oh! My apologies, child, I didn’t see you standing there!”

They peered upwards at the large bug’s head. It was pale green and rectangular, small in comparison to her blocky body. Two forelimbs protruded from her cloak to wring nervously in front of her chest.

“Ah...where are your parents, little one?” the bug, a leafhopper, asked after a moment, lifting her face and scanning the nearby throng of townsfolk. It wasn’t a very interesting question. They turned their attention instead to the fly that was now curiously examining them with multi-faceted eyes. The edge of his massive nail gleamed in the light from the street lamps. Maybe a nail of that size would be enough to defeat their enemy.

They took a few steps forward, examining the weapon for any faults and finding none. Would they be strong enough to hold it aloft?

“Ah, interested in my nail, are you?” the fly asked. “Are you a student of the nail art?”

The words washed over them without finding any particular purchase. Why did these bugs insist on jabbering so inefficiently with their mouthparts? It seemed wasteful and crude. They tried to extend a connection in the manner their siblings communicated with but found no answering thrum of void.

The fly harrumphed. “Well, you’re a quiet one, at any rate. But how is it that you seem so familiar? You have a look about you like some of the bugs I’ve seen in the City of Tears’ richer boroughs. Is your family visiting from the Velvet Heights, perhaps?”

They stepped closer. If they leaned slightly, they could _just_ see the handle of the nail sticking out from the fly’s back.

 _“Honestly!_ Quite a rude child, aren’t you?” the big bug commented, seemingly affronted. “It’s polite to offer a reply to your elders when they ask you a question, you know!” She turned to the fly. “My apologies, Sly, the town’s children are normally much better-behaved than this. I’ve never known a single one of them to cause any trouble in the shopping district at all.”

“It’s all right, Hemmal,” the fly—Sly—said, and then, speaking to them once more, “I’m sure they meant no offense. What’s your name, child?”

Name? They didn’t understand the question. Was _they-them-theirs_ not name enough? Any additional label heaped upon that seemed superfluous. Dismissing the conversation as background noise, they reached out to touch the hilt of the fly's nail. With surprising speed, Sly stepped back outside of their range, his body turned protectively to prevent access to the weapon.

“It’s considered very bad manners to attempt to touch another’s nail without their permission,” he scolded. Sensing they had done something wrong, they hid their offending limb in their cloak. The fly continued with a grumble. “Even a bug as young as yourself should know that.”

Young? Were they young? They considered this. What did it mean to be young? Were they not as old as the shadows that enshrouded their birthplace?

“Still silent...child...do you speak Hallow?” the bigger bug, Hemmal, asked slowly.

Speak? This was quickly becoming a taxing conversation. Of course they spoke—just not through a medium as slow and unrefined as mouthparts and throat vocalizations. These strange bugs were the ones who could not speak properly.

Hemmal turned to face Sly. “How strange! You know, I don’t think they know how to speak Hallow!”

“Or perhaps,” the fly said, staring closely at them, “they cannot speak at all.” They stared back, unperturbed by the implication of a disability.

“Maybe they're a newcomer to the kingdom and simply wandered off from their family?” Hemmal mused, looking around once more as though a similar-looking group of bugs would pop out of the nearest alleyway. “That might explain the language barrier.”

“Do you know…?” Sly said slowly. “I feel strange saying it, but something about them—don’t they remind you of the Pure Vessel when they were young? Before their first molt?”

“I wouldn’t know—hardly anybody in Dirtmouth has ever even _seen_ the Pure Vessel. And besides, what you’re suggesting...that’s preposterous!” Hemmal exclaimed. Her voice trailed off as she paused and leaned closer. They took a small step back, wary of way she had just intruded upon their space. Was she going to fight them? “But...now that you mention it...something about the shape of their shell…they do look awfully similar to some of the paintings up at the church...”

A bug that looked similar to them? Was it their sibling? The one who had looked back at them from the ledge? They remembered the sound of receding footsteps as their sibling followed the pale entity that had called them up out of the darkness. They might have fallen back into the Abyss, but that sibling had not. No, that sibling had vanished from their sight behind the sealed entrance.

They must have visibly perked up, because Sly chuckled and addressed them. “Yes, I see you recognized the title. How peculiar. If my suspicion is correct, shouldn’t you be accompanied by at least one of the Five? They follow the Royal Family everywhere. You can hardly say ‘O Most Holy’ without one of them popping up out of the dirt to recite the catechisms.”

“The _Five?”_ Hemmal echoed, sounding faint. “Higher Beings below, you’re not suggesting…this bug…?”

“All I suggest is that this child keep me company for a little while,” Sly said. “In these uncertain times, it’s not safe for one so young to wander about unaccompanied, with no nail of their own for protection. And in the meantime, I think I’ll send a letter to my friends at the White Palace to inquire if they’ve somehow misplaced a younger, less-publicized sibling of the Vessel’s.” He chortled as he brightened in enthusiasm. “That would surely send them running up here! How amusing it would be to watch that loudmouth part the crowds with his stench!”

“I...see…” Hemmal said uncertainly, dazed by the prospect. “Well, in any case, it sounds as if we’ve concluded our tour for the day. I’ll reserve the shops you liked during the tour. Please contact my office to reschedule the rest of the tour for a more convenient time.” She bowed to Sly, then faced them and paused, as though unsure of what parting gesture would be appropriate. After a brief hesitation she inclined her head. “Child,” she said simply, and hurried out into the street.

“Don’t mind her,” Sly said. He began trudging away at a sedate pace. His nail was so enormous that it completely eclipsed his back. They followed him at a safe distance of two paces. “She’s a little prissy, but nothing worse than you’d find in the upper caste of Velvet Heights. And she’s the best realtor this town has to offer. _And_ she’s rich! Did you hear her pockets? They jingled with geo! Oh yes. Once I open my shop, mine will be much the same. They’ll be so weighed down with geo, you’ll need a wheelbarrow just to move me about!” He hopped to the side of a group of bugs walking in the opposite direction with more agility than what might be expected of a bug of such small stature. They slipped in between the bugs’ legs and caught up after a moment. 

“I tell you, anybody can pick up a nail and wave it around and call themselves a warrior. But geo...now _that_ takes true skill. You think any of the bugs introducing themselves as knights could open a shop and turn a three-fold profit in just one season? No? I didn’t think so!”

He seemed content to continue talking to himself. They found no reason to interrupt him. Perhaps he would take them to the same place where he’d gotten his nail? Once they were armed with a nail of their own, there would be no reason to stop them from setting out again in search of the radiant malevolence that had beckoned them from their birthplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hemmal is not an important or reoccurring character at all--just a part of the worldbuilding. I expect Dirtmouth was a very busy and well-off trading town in Hallownest's glory days. It only makes sense for a realtor job to exist to help with retail acquisition for those like Sly interested in setting up shop in the lucrative location.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and a happy new year! I am happy and full of turkey and ham.

In the north wing of the White Palace, there was a cavernous ballroom.

Its vast checkered floor was made of smooth, cold stone. Interspersed throughout the room were thick pillars covered in intricate silver filigree and carvings of lush plant growth. The ceiling above was decorated with depictions of the Pale King and the White Lady, each showing one scene of a linear story: the Pale King’s arrival to these lands, Their first meeting, Their wedding, Their raising up of Hallownest. The last carving in the sequence had been added more recently. The Pure Vessel didn’t think the small horned bug depicted within looked very much like them, especially not following their recent molt, but the White Lady had been pleased by it.

On occasion, this ballroom was used to host grandiose parties for Hallownest’s elite nobles and gentry. When these parties happened, hundreds of invitations were sent out via thin shale tablets stamped with the King’s seal. The Pure Vessel would watch the couriers’ departure from their window in the castle’s highest peak until the ever-falling rain finally obscured the postal carriers’ diminishing forms. To which distant corner of Hallownest had they been heading? The Pure Vessel had been taught cartography by the kingdom’s finest scholars (and by the Pure King Himself when He found the instructor’s education falling short), but they had never seen these locations for themselves. 

The parties would last for ages. Bugs of all sizes from all corners of the kingdom would fill the chamber with their laughter and murmurs and conversations. Waiters would weave nimbly through the throngs with bottles of dew wine and platters of hors d'oeuvres held aloft, looking smart in their silver and black waistcoats, their lapels glittering with the crest that marked them as royal servants. 

The Pure Vessel observed these strange festivities from where they sat between the Pale King and the White Lady. Sometimes a noble would approach the ivory thrones and bow, paying their respects and compliments to first the Pale King, then the White Lady, and then finally, with awe and trembling, to the Pure Vessel. 

“Our savior, thank you, thank you!” they would cry out, bowing so low that their faces touched the floor. “Shining offspring of our dear king and queen! Unending blessings upon you!”

The Pure Vessel never replied to these guests' adulation, nor were they expected to. Even the worshippers themselves seemed to expect nothing from them. They looked at them the way the Pure Vessel sometimes looked at paintings. Like a work of art that was interesting to look at, but with a meaning that was perhaps too mystifying to be appreciated fully.

The Pale King Himself rarely spoke — He preferred to communicate in the way of higher beings, through the brush of a sapient mind over another. And so here the White Lady complimented His nature by stepping in gracefully, dipping Her head and blinking in pleasure while She thanked their subjects for their devotion.

The Pure Vessel felt nothing for these parties. 

It was difficult, sometimes, feeling nothing. But they knew their attendance at the parties had been permitted as a test of sorts. Sometimes they could feel the Pale King’s attention lingering over them, as piercing as a beam of light from a lens. Could they withstand social interaction without losing their precious emptiness?

It must have been judged so, for their attendance at the parties continued to be permitted.

The Pure Vessel felt nothing for these parties. But it was harder to feel nothing for what took place in the great chamber when it was not hosting parties — training sessions with the Five Great Knights.

They were ripped out of their musings when Dryya’s rapier flashed towards them like a bolt of lightning. 

“Pay attention!” Dryya called with some irritation. The Pure Vessel dodged the incoming strike with ease, then leapt back again to avoid her follow-up thrust. Her nail kicked up sparks when it struck the floor instead. “Your concentration wavers today. Where has it gone? It must never leave you in battle.”

Pure Vessel accepted the criticism. It was true. They held their nail aloft, tracking her lithe figure with the point of their nail as they had been taught to do. She paused to examine their form and footwork, then nodded. “Acceptable. We begin the pattern again.”

The drill had begun in the early morning and continued throughout the afternoon. Dryya did not seem to tire. Her speed and accuracy were unparalleled. In some ways, her movements reminded the Pure Vessel of the bugs who danced during the parties. 

Faithfully executing what they had been shown over the course of the day, the Pure Vessel dashed forwards and brought their nail sweeping in a silver arc towards Dryya’s side. She parried the blow upwards. The Pure Vessel let their momentum carry them into a spin that carried them safely out of range of her counterattack. They caught her next strike on the back of their nail and used it to parry her blade outwards. Two quick steps brought them inside her guard, their nail thrusting upwards at an unprotected abdomen—

Her kick caught them squarely in the center of their body and sent them flying backwards. They landed some distance away in a crouch meant to minimize access to their vulnerable parts, but Dryya did not pursue. She brandished her nail with a flourish.

“Your nail is not the only weapon at your disposal. Do not forget the power in your arms and legs.”

The Pure Vessel looked down at their limbs, which, even after their second molt, were still shorter than hers. 

Dryya laughed and sheathed her nail. “Yes, they are little, this is true. But they will not always be so. If you continue to molt in the way you have so far, I think you will end up quite tall—yes, even taller than me! And I will make sure you know how to use that height to your advantage.”

Seeing that their fight was finished, the Pure Vessel put their nail away too. An attendant waiting in the wings hurried forward to present Dryya with a goblet of water, which she drank gratefully. Pure Vessel was offered nothing. They did not need water. They did not need food either. For a moment they wondered what food and water might taste like, what it meant to _taste_ something, but quickly discarded the train of thought.

_No cost too great. No mind to think. No will to break. No voice to cry suffering._

“They’re getting better, aren’t they? It’s amazing to watch!” Ogrim’s cheerful voice echoed in the chamber. He leaned over the edge of the balcony and waved. “Hello, dear prince! That was wonderfully done!”

The Pure Vessel turned away without acknowledgement of the compliment. Ogrim was so bright and loud. He chattered endlessly and often asked questions that made the Pure Vessel feel bewildered. Were they hungry? Were they tired? Did they want to rest? Did they like the new nail from the forgemaster? Which nail stance was their favorite? How were their Soul studies with the Pale King progressing? And he never ceased to ask them these questions, no matter how often Dryya scolded him for doing so. 

“You know what the King has instructed,” she would always say disapprovingly. “You cannot ask them such things, Ogrim.” There was an implication there that the Pure Vessel wasn’t quite sure they understood, but Ogrim must have, because he always scratched his shell in abashment and drooped.

“I know,” he would say, enthusiasm slightly dimmed. “I just forget, sometimes. And they’re so cute, it’s difficult not to cherish them!”

That same conversation started up again in its latest iteration behind them as Pure Vessel slipped out of the chamber. After nail training concluded, they always had Soul training with the King. They walked quickly through the halls and took all the shortcuts they had discovered during their time in the palace. 

It was even harder to feel nothing about these moments alone with the Pale King than it was to be empty about the training sessions. A god’s schedule was never free. The Pale King was always busy at His desk drafting up some new ordinance to guide the kingdom's expansion, or His workshop rang with the sounds of His tinkering as He built models for new infrastructure projects and other architectural developments. In the precious few times the Pure Vessel was alone in a room alone with Him, it was... _immense_ , somehow, to be the sole recipient of that vast attention.

At their approach, the kingsmoulds guarding the entrance to the king’s chambers stepped aside to grant passage. As always, the Pure Vessel’s gaze lingered on the ink-black bodies barely visible beneath their silver armor. Distaste flickered in their breast before they smothered it. But it was difficult. How off-putting these constructs were! How similar and not-similar to their siblings they were! 

Long ago, soon after the Pale King had brought them up out of their birthplace, the Pure Vessel overhead one of their first governesses discussing their charge in the servants’ quarters. 

“They look angelic, of course—you’ll never find a more well-shaped child in the entire kingdom. But I tell you, Nurl, they are so empty, I find it quite horrifying. It is like...like a coat rack somehow sprouted limbs and grew a shell. And yet it learns, and remembers lessons!”

“Don’t speak so about the Prince!” the servant urged. 

The governess, Egret, snorted. Pure Vessel paused in the hallway and cocked their head to listen more. The discovery that they were strange and off-putting to some bugs needled at them like the tip of a nail. Time did not banish the feeling.

Afterwards, the White Lady noticed this preoccupation and asked what had caused it. The Pure Vessel duly recounted the experience. Soon after that, the governess had gone away and the White Lady declared She would raise up the Vessel instead.

“You worry far too much, my Wyrm,” She had said in answer to the Pale King’s concerns. “I will mind your constraints, as severe as they are. But I will not allow such discussion to spread its seed in My home.”

Without fail, the kingsmoulds always reminded the Pure Vessel of that experience. If they seemed odd and inanimate to other bugs, how much worse must these kingsmoulds have been, who could do little aside from follow simple instructions and bluntly wield their claw-blades.

Inside the workshop, the Pale King sat at His workbench. Spread out before Him were a number of delicate glass containers. They were filled with a wispy, gleaming silver substance that roiled like mist. Soul.

 _Vessel,_ the Pale King greeted without turning around. The Pure Vessel felt a swoop in their body like they had jumped a great height. _Come inside. I have something new to teach you._

Obediently, the Pure Vessel clambered up on the bench to sit beside the Pale King, noting with some satisfaction that they were finally tall enough to see over the table without needing to sit in the Pale King’s lap.

The king pointed at a small globe. _Do you sense its contents?_

The Pure Vessel nodded. 

_Soul is an arcane force that is generated from bugs. It is the substance that animates our bodies. From it, we create spells or heal damage to our incarnate forms._

The king set the globe aside and stretched out His fingers. Pinpricks of gleaming light brightened between them and coalesced into an orb. With a flick of His fingers, the light extended suddenly into jagged, dagger-like spikes. When He bent his fingers inwards again, they dispersed.

_You try._

The Pure Vessel held out their arms. The king stooped over to cup their fingers with His. His hands were much bigger and each finger was topped by a delicate claw. The Pure Vessel did not have claws. They wondered why. Would they receive claws with their next molt?

The king begin to focus Soul again. It felt bright and clean. They did their best to mirror the pull they felt and a tiny sphere of light appeared above their palms.

They felt the king’s surprised pleasure. _Good. Now, shape it…_

Shaping Soul was much more challenging than simply focusing it. Hesitantly, they flexed their little fingers. The sphere wavered, its shape distorting briefly. Could it be done? How had the king performed it so easily? They struggled for a moment. The king watched, His hands spread out beneath theirs to keep the particles of Soul from fleeing. At last, the sphere twisted into little spikes, and then solidified further into floating daggers. 

The king’s thumbs swept over their hands and squeezed them briefly. _Very good._

At that, the Pure Vessel lost focus. The Soul-daggers dissolved. The king removed His hands quickly like the cooks did when they touched something too hot.

 _We will commence work on spells,_ He said, sounding distant once again. _I will teach you to form Soul-constructs. You will use them in your training with the Knights._

The Pure Vessel looked down at the table where the king’s hands rested a safe and deliberate distance from theirs. They wanted to place their hands in His once again. His hands had been warm and gentle. The Pale King did not often touch them. Each occurrence was a wonder they privately collected.

There came a heavy knock on the workshop’s door. The Pale King rose from the bench. 

“Enter,” He said aloud. His physical voice was sonorous and clear like a tone struck from a bell. It seemed to hang in the air long after he had finished speaking.

The workshop doors opened and an attendant scurried inside, eyes respectfully averted. It was Willik, the head butler. 

“Your grace,” he said as he presented a small stone tablet. “A message arrived from the Great Nailsage Sly, in Dirtmouth.” 

“Dirtmouth?” the King repeated slowly as He accepted the tablet. “Yes. Yes, that makes sense. I did tell him he would find better markets outside the City of Tears. I am glad to hear he listened.” He broke the thin wax coating that concealed the message’s contents and began to read. Willik waited attentively — and jumped when the tablet slipped from the king’s hands and shattered on the floor. The Pure Vessel stood up immediately. 

“Your grace!” Willek exclaimed, rushing forward to sweep up the fragments. 

The king was still looking at His now-empty hands, but His eyes had gone distant and silvery with the light that signified the use of His prescience.

“How…?” the king murmured, voice dreamy and distant. Another moment, and then He blinked away the power that shrouded His eyes. “Willek. Summon the Five immediately.”

“Yes, your grace!” Willek answered immediately. He bowed to the king and then bowed again in the Pure Vessel’s direction. “Right away, your grace!” 

He scuttled out of the workshop. The Pure Vessel watched him go, and then turned to watch the king, who had drifted over to look out the window of His workshop. His thoughts were concealed like a curtain hid a window.

The Pure Vessel could make no sense of the tangle of emotions that surrounded Him like a cloud, but as they watched, the Pale King turned an instrument over and over in His hands. The tendril of void captured inside writhed like a living shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy building the characterizations of the Pale King. I am so weak for interactions between the Pure Vessel and the Pale King—that tentative yearning for a connection weighed against all that's at stake. *Chef's kiss*. Poetic cinema.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment!


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